~ The Real and True Adventures of Remarriage at Life's Midpoint

Monthly Archives: May 2012

I absolutely love this time of year—late spring, when the lure of the Farmers’ Market beckons. It’s one of our favorite ways to spend a Saturday morning, poking around the richly diverse offerings at the South of the James Market in Richmond. I found a vendor selling fresh organic spinach, and knew straightaway what we’d be having for dinner that night.

This recipe has been in my files for more than three decades. (Sheesh. That makes me sound old. If I said I started making it when I was eight I doubt you’d believe me. Nor should you.) I no longer remember the recipe’s provenance, and I’ve tweaked it enough over the years that I feel comfortable claiming it as my own. Crisp, flavorful, and eminently nutritious, this is the perfect salad for those days when it’s too hot to do anything with the stove other than boil some eggs and fry up some bacon. Enjoy!

Wash, rinse, and dry the spinach, then remove the stems and tear the leaves into bite-sized pieces. Wash and dry the bean sprouts. Toss the ingredients (except for the bacon) together about one-half hour before serving; when ready to serve, add the bacon.

Combine the dressing ingredients in a jar or container with a tight-fitting lid. Shake well. Pour over salad and toss.

Note: If I’m making this salad for just two people, I find it best to toss only what we’ll eat, keeping the remainder of the ingredients unassembled in the refrigerator, since this salad is best when served shortly after preparation. The dressing keeps well in the refrigerator for about a week.

Like this:

The juror, in distress, captures the sympathy of the judge and jury. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you’ve ever served on a jury, you know that it involves a lot of waiting, an occasional rush of activity, and intense listening and observation. I received a summons to report for jury duty recently, and, after several hours, I was among 12 individuals seated for a trial. The waiting and selection process had dragged on so long that it was one o’clock before the judge recessed the court for lunch. We had only one hour before we must report back to court so the trial could begin.

If you’ve ever suffered through a gallbladder attack, you know that it’s a most uncomfortable and unpleasant experience. Eating usually triggers it—especially eating in a rushed manner. On the day I was selected to serve on a jury, I endured what would be my third gallbladder attack in four months. It was, by far, the worst, and that’s saying a lot, since the other two meant trips to the emergency room.

The sickness began to hit me as I walked back to the courts building following a rushed lunch. By the time I reached the jury room, I felt truly ill, but willed myself to persevere. With my 11 compatriots, I sat through the Commonwealth of Virginia’s presentation of evidence and witnesses’ testimony. The discomfort, which came in waves, seemed bearable, especially since what I was hearing and seeing was so riveting.

When the prosecution rested its case, the judge called a brief recess, after which the defense would present its side.

Back in the crowded jury room, with nothing other than waiting to keep my mind occupied, the illness took hold in a most dramatic way. The other jurors were visibly concerned; a kindly gentleman watched me return to my seat at the table and asked what was wrong.

“You look gray,” he said.

“I’m having a gallbladder attack,” I replied, wetting a paper napkin in my cup of water and applying it to my neck. “I’m supposed to have surgery in less than three weeks.”

What happened next is not to be believed; if you saw this in a movie you’d criticize the screenwriter for crafting such a contrivance.

“I’m a gallbladder surgeon,” he said. “My name is Dr H.”

“You’re kidding?! Are you really? My surgeon is Dr. R; do you know her?”

“She’s in my practice.”

By this time the jurors were as transfixed by the jury room drama as they had been by anything they’d heard in the courtroom. But of course I had to make light of things:

“Well, we’ve got a pretty large table here and lots of light; why don’t you help me out? Cut this thing out of me and we’ll get back to the trial.”

Then followed another wave of pain.

The court deputy had entered the room. I looked at him wanly and told him I was ill. He asked me to write my name on a legal pad, ripped out the sheet of paper, and left immediately to speak with the judge.

I’m deeply embarrassed by what happened next. The judge called me into the court room to question me about my health. He was aware that Dr. H was on the jury, and asked if I minded whether or not he spoke to him about my situation. Dr. H joined me in the otherwise empty jury gallery. The rest of the trial’s participants looked on.

“She’s a very sick woman,” Dr. H remarked. “This is an acute case.”

I pleaded to stay on; I was sure I’d be fine. Perhaps someone could call my husband and he could bring me my pain medication? I did not want to be the reason for a delay in the justice system, although looking back, I can’t help but wonder why the parties did not seat an alternate juror.

The judge sent Dr. H and me back to the jury room so he could discuss the situation with the attorneys. After a few moments, he called the entire jury back in.

“How do you feel?” the judge asked me. “Do you think you can proceed?”

“I want to try.”

“Well, I appreciate your dedication, but I’ve already decided to end the trial. The jury is dismissed.”

Dismayed, I started to cry. Even though the defense attorney assured me that these things happen and I shouldn’t feel bad, justice was delayed, and I was the reason why.

Dr H and the court deputy walked me to my car; Dr H offered to drive me home, but I thought I could manage it. (I did.) Once home, I took a pain pill and an anti-nausea pill. I fell fast asleep.

But my story does not end here. Oh no. Here’s where it gets interesting.

The next morning, a Friday, I met with my gastroenterologist, with whom I’d had a long-standing appointment. I relayed what happened the previous day. Here’s what he said:

“You’re not going to make it to the 21st. I want you to have this operation as soon as we can find a surgeon to do it.”

My surgeon, Dr R, was not back yet from vacation. Dr. V asked his assistant to begin calling through the roster. Of the surgeons she called, one was not taking new patients, and the others would not agree to operate on me without an initial consult, which would delay things; Dr. V wanted this to happen as soon as possible. Only one doctor said he’d be willing to perform the surgery, but it had to be that afternoon, since he was leaving for vacation on Sunday.

I drove myself to the surgery center and got myself admitted. John had left work and was on his way.

I was in pre-op, hooked to an IV and wearing one of those lovely print hospital gowns, when my surgeon walked into the room.

Like this:

When you’re recovering from an illness or surgery, there’s really nothing like a home-cooked meal to warm your heart and hasten your journey on the road to wellness. John, the Midlife Second Husband, made me a wonderful meal of pork chops, gravy, and egg noodles. My neighbor Marge brought over the meatloaf you see here.

Everyone has a recipe for meatloaf in their files, right? My own, which includes chunks of cheddar cheese, has been my default setting for ages. But Marge’s version of this comfort food has inspired me to vary my repertoire. It was delicious—just the right balance of sweetness and tang. I enjoyed several meatloaf sandwiches for lunches the week after my surgery, with nothing other than ketchup to adorn the bread. I’m craving it even as I type this.

Marge tells me that her daughter Sally really gets the credit for this concoction. By virtue of a happy accident, she once erred by adding sweetened condensed milk instead of simple canned milk to the mix. It was such a hit that she changed the recipe to include her mistake. (Marge tinkered further by splitting the difference to reduce the sweetness factor, as you’ll see below.)

Marge, thanks for bringing this to us during my recovery, and for allowing me to share the recipe on the blog. And Sally, thanks for misreading the recipe!

Pour topping over meatloaf and bake at 350-degrees for one hour. Serve with
homemade mashed potatoes or egg noodles. Delicious cold, sliced in a sandwich.

Editor’s note: Sally (of Marge & Sally) tells me that the recipe originated from the kitchen of a former First Lady of Virginia—Edwina Dalton, wife of the late Governor John N. Dalton, who served as the Commonwealth’s 63rd governor, from 1978 to 1982.

Regular readers of the blog are familiar with my medical memoir, My Right Eye, published in serial form on this bandwidth. After concluding the series, I was certain I’d exhausted the topic; I certainly hoped to give you a respite from reading about my health issues. But hoping doesn’t always get us what we want now, does it?

A week ago today, I had surgery to remove my gallbladder. I knew this was coming; an operation was scheduled for May 21. But my body wasn’t having any of that. Telling your body to wait while you finish doing something or other is rather like telling a baby that she can’t be born just yet because you’re right in the middle of getting a pedicure. Or telling your gallbladder to settle down and behave because you have an article about Sissy Spacek to write and you’re on deadline.

As a cancer survivor, any future health issue—especially one involving chronic pain and a need for surgery—raises the uncomfortable specter of whether or not the cancer has returned. I discussed this with the surgeon who was originally to have done my cholecystectomy. Her response was terrific, and it has become my new mantra:

When you hear hooves in the distance, expect to see a horse, not a zebra.

Gallbladder cancer is rare; but then so was the cyst in my right eye. Still, I repeated her axiom to myself each time I found myself growing worried about the possibilities. Which was often.

The story surrounding my surgery is worthy of its own blog post, and I’ll write about it another time, when I’m feeling stronger. But for now I just wanted to check in with all of you to say that my unexpected expected operation last Friday is the reason you haven’t heard from me in more than a week. And to shout from the blogosphere rooftop that today, my surgeon’s assistant was able to tell me that the result of my pathology report is good—my gallbladder was not cancerous.

The moral of this story? I think you know it already, but it feels good to write it down: Sometimes hoping does get us what we want. I was hoping for a pony, and I got one.

One of the reasons I took a brief sabbatical from the blog is because I was given the distinct honor of interviewing Academy Award-winning actress Sissy Spacek for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. I met her at Selba, a Richmond restaurant, for our interview. Afterwards, we were standing and chatting when I noticed a necklace she was wearing—a thin gold chain from which hung a cluster of charms. I asked her to tell me about them, and I’m awfully glad I did; her answer gave me the lede for my article. The story, “Sissy’s Way,” appears in today’s newspaper (which has a few extras that don’t appear in the online version). I’m pleased to share a link to it here so that you can read about this extraordinary artist. You might also like to check out Jay Strafford’s review of Ms. Spacek’s heartfelt new memoir, My Extraordinary, Ordinary Life.

As a bonus, Ms. Spacek shared a little secret with me. She’s been married to film production designer and art director Jack Fisk for 38 years, so of course you know I just had to ask: “What’s the secret to a happy marriage?” Here’s what she told me:

Cookbook author Ina Garten is my hero. I discovered her years ago on her Food Network program, The Barefoot Contessa, and was immediately captivated not only by the delicious-looking food she prepared, but also by her warmth and hospitality. So many cooking programs give you the impression of having been invited into the host’s kitchen to learn a cooking tip or two; with Ina, you get the sense that she’d invite you to stay after—not to help her clean up, necessarily (although I’d gladly do so), but to chat over coffee and dessert. A decadent, incredible dessert.

The first Ina Garten book I ever purchased (there are four on my shelf) was Barefoot Contessa Parties!. I’ve made my favorites from this book so often that the dog-eared, stained pages have retained their place-memory. The recipe I’m sharing here is found on page 174, and I’d like to thank the publisher, Clarkson Potter/Random House, for giving me permission to do so.

With farmers’ markets opening up for the season, this is the perfect time—and the perfect way—to enjoy the bounties of your region. This is truly one of my favorite dishes to make, and it garners raves each time it appears on my table. (The dressing is so delicious and easy to prepare that it has become my default salad dressing.) I promise you: if you’ve never tried one of Ina’s recipes, this one will get you hooked. You’ll soon start your own collection of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Toss the eggplant, bell peppers, onion, and garlic with the olive oil, salt, and pepper on a large baking sheet. Roast for 40 minutes, until browned, turning once with a spatula.

The vegetables, all minced and seasoned and ready to roast

Meanwhile, cook the orzo in boiling salted water for 7 to 9 minutes, until tender. Drain and transfer to a large serving bowl.

Add the roasted vegetables to the pasta, scraping all the liquid and seasonings from the roasting pan into the pasta bowl.

For the dressing, combine the lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper and pour on the pasta and vegetables. Let cool to room temperature, then add the scallions, pignolis, feta, and basil. Check the seasonings, and serve at room temperature.

TO TOAST PIGNOLIS:

To toast pignolis, place them in a dry sauté pan and cook over medium heat for about 4 minutes, until evenly browned, tossing frequently.